Killing Kate(17)
Kate is taking a nap. I think she’s hung over. I am extra quiet so I don’t wake her, because I want to be on my own tonight. I apply makeup precariously. Green and gold eye shadow, thick black eyeliner and mascara and my eyes are unrecognizable as my own. A touch of peach colored lipstick completes the look. I don’t need any foundation or blush, since the little time I spend outside has already given me a natural flush. Besides, upon inspection in the mirror, I can see that I’m glowing. It’s because I want this date to happen. I’ve been anticipating it all day long. I called off work for the night, telling Alicia I have a headache and couldn’t make it in. She knows that means hangover, but I rarely call off so she assumes I’m not lying and doesn’t give me any shit, though she should in this instance.
Drake calls me when he arrives and I hobble outside to meet him, wishing I’d practiced in the heels a bit longer. He smells like cinnamon, I notice upon entering his car. It’s the same black Mercedes he drove away in when I met him at Jack’s funeral. Everything inside of the car is black as well and the dash is intimidatingly lit up with red and blue lights. Music with loud bass is turned down low. I note he drives a stick shift and watch in fascination the way he handles it as we coast down Lake Shore Drive toward the city lights, Lake Michigan on our left.
“I thought we could discuss creating a declaration of property tax transfer over dinner at Crimson,” Drake says. “I’ll keep it very non-technical for you and just explain what you’re signing before you sign it, and then we can enjoy our meal and some drinks.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. I sincerely hope this is one of those dates where the man pays, because I definitely can’t afford Crimson. It’s one of those fusion places with two different types of cuisine that really have no business being together, but for some reason it works and everyone loves it. I think it’s Thai and Italian or something. It’s a place for people who actually care about what they’re eating and survive on more than ramen noodles and cheap whiskey. Lucky for me, my diet keeps me thin, and I think to myself about how people who can afford to eat well probably have to spend their spare time working it off while I get to lie around drunk. What a treat. It takes about fifteen minutes to drive downtown tonight and Drake tells me a bit about himself while I listen and stare at pretty the dash in hypnotic awe. He and his brother grew up not too far from where I did in Elmwood and didn’t have much money, but their mother said she’d scrub toilets to make sure they had a good education. His father died when he was ten. His first apartment was on the south east side, which even I won’t live in, even though the rent is cheaper than where I live now. He went to University of Chicago in Hyde Park and worked as a mechanic through college and law school. I learn more about Drake than I have ever shared with myself with any guy in a fifteen minute drive. He pulls his car up to the entrance and a valet attendant immediately runs up and opens my door for me. I precariously attempt to not give him a crotch shot and gracefully step out of the car while balancing on my heels. It’s not as easy as I make it look and I feel relieved, as though if I pass that small test the rest of the evening will be a piece of cake.
Everything inside Crimson looks like a palace and is, of course, entirely done in red. I heard something once a few years ago when it opened that the owner had paid four million dollars just for the décor and had entire walls flown over from Tunisia or Morocco or some other exotic country I’ll never make it to. Crimson is as close as I’ll get, so I decide to really enjoy it and pretend I’ve been whisked off to some faraway land. We are led by a gorgeous hostess to cushy chairs that are low to the ground where you lounge while you eat. It probably isn’t conducive to digestion, but it gives you the impression that you’re being pampered and relaxed. Our table is privately shielded with gauzy gold curtains that are draped from the ceiling to surround us in a personal cove. I feel like I’m in an opium den, but it’s cozy. I tuck my legs beneath me and open the gold leather menu and bite my lip to prevent myself from gasping at the prices. Everything sounds rich and expensive, from the coconut cumin lobster ravioli to the braised truffle chili duck confit. I’m way out of my league, but Kate would be too, and I am holding her within me so hard I’m trembling. We order some $14 cocktails that are stronger than they taste and thankfully I relax a bit. Mine is a dark violent orange color and tastes like how I would imagine Hawaii does. I find myself nibbling on parmesan edamame and peanut-coconut olives. It’s all strange and wonderful. The flavors and alcohol are intoxicating me like nothing I’ve ever had before. I think to myself about how if I eat this way more often I probably wouldn’t be as drunk and oversexed as I am. A life of cheap food and liquor will leave you feeling empty, I suppose. I am on my second fancy martini when our meal comes, and I forget what I even ordered. There’s a hunk of meat in front of me that looks like something Fred Flintstone would eat. I am suddenly starving and can’t really remember the last time I actually ate a meal. A can of soup before bed doesn’t count. It was very likely after Jack’s funeral. The effect of actual food is mildly sobering and it’s a new feeling for me, and suddenly I realize I’m getting a strange and curious stare from my dinner companion. I completely forgot he was there. “What?” Having to pause between bites is killing me.